


For Keeps

by myria_chan



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, barely noticeable, extremely mild warning for mentions of intercourse, it's very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6265951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myria_chan/pseuds/myria_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[TakuKazu] A love story of firsts set in reverse; quiet, built in foundations of trust and respect, tempered by an equal allowance of mistakes and acceptance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> This is more like a collection of head canons that somehow made sense when you place them in a certain order. :D Enjoy!

The rings are a pair of bands of the same size—because they ridiculously fit to each other like that—polished in a silver finish, simple and unadorned except for their names etched on the back, and a stone a quarter-size of his fingernail at the center.

Alexandrite, he remembers the dealer introduction, green in daylight, violet in incandescence.

Takuya buys the rings, because he figures that they’re headed to that direction anyway, but does not ask the question, knowing that Kazuki will be the one to bring it up eventually. He’s always the one who initiates situations into the relationship—Kazuki will pick the place, will pick the time—while Takuya’s responsible for crafting a semblance of reality out of them.

So he keeps the rings in a velvet box in his pocket and his heartbeat in his throat at all times. Every. Single. Damn. Time. He recently took up laundry duty for this. Restaurants and candlelit dinners have been excruciating. Even that trip to the ocean park has him fidgeting under his skin.

Because he’s in love, he loves Kazuki enough to put a ring on it, a ring brimming in their colors so that everyone and everything can see who they are and who belong to, like the sappy, hopeless, romantic inside of him he feigns having no recognition of.

But he deduces that if it’s the two of them, the proposal will happen like over washing plates after breakfast at 3am in the morning, ordinary and mundane but has enough simplicity to paint a picture of forever behind close lids.

It doesn’t happen on the kitchen counter, though.

It happens in the bedroom, on a Sunday, peach-colored skies peeking through closed jalousies, the dying hush of midnight stillness meets the rouses of early morning patrons, alone and together on a creaky mattress that has seen better days, sharing a pillow and oxygen, finally, propping himself an elbow, Kazuki says on the serious, “We should get married.”

Grinning, he pulls out a velvet box from the bedside drawer, and they share a laugh.

—

One morning, Kazuki notices a lot of things: how Takuya’s breath breaks at the whisper of his name; how kisses tastes better before breakfast; how the length of his arm about the same width of Kazuki’s shoulders, a hand rests at the prominence in proof; and if he leans close enough to feel the steady thrum of life, Kazuki’s head just the right size to fit against the crook of his neck, the tips of his spiky hair tickling the steady lines of strong jaw—notices why he bothered wearing his heart on his sleeves, when it looks so much better on Takuya’s palms.

—

Their first time is awkward and painful, decorated by an abundance of profanities and apologies. One missed angle later, they discover where the prostate is, and the world is a marginally magical place again.

—

Kazuki stands there in the middle of their apartment, flashing all points of his teeth like an idiot who won the lottery.

“What?” he asks, readjusting the flannel of the stylish jacket he have just fished out of their closet in an effort to be impressive.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Kazuki half-remarks, half-teases, sliding an arm around his waist.

Takuya puts on scowl. “You’re wearing my shoes.”

—

They don’t share a life until after college, because the fundamental truth is that they are young, they are free, and they are still far from who they want to be; should focus their time in building an existence outside of themselves, not on hurrying love, and return when their bits and pieces gel seamlessly together.

—

The first kiss happens in a dare. Figures it will take on Seijuurou Mikoshiba to steer them to the touchy-feely section of the uncharted throes of the imminent, to spin the bottle on Takuya’s direction and bids him to kiss the most beautiful person in the room.

Takuya kisses Kazuki because he is beautiful; a beauty that is natural and unassuming; fashioned after perseverance and self-respect, to serve a purpose beyond brilliance and veneration; made more meaningful and interesting by his crafty wit and gentle heart; the kind that is not above sharing, nor caring; beelines to the solitary solitude of his dorm room confinement that night he realizes he’s a fledgling, not an eagle, and he needed bigger wings to soar to greater heights, and brings a box of pizza and tissues, with a smile that can bend moonbeams to prisms and rainbows, waiting to heal his wounds and pride when he acts like he’s impermeable.

A kiss of goodwill and well intentions that lasted five minutes longer than necessary, complete with tongue and teeth, mutual that by the time they pull apart, Seijuurou could but shake his head and grin… “Well, well, well…”

—

Kazuki dislikes the rain because it reminds him that the world is grey, cold and sad, with too much tears and letdowns in slurries of discriminations, disappointments and defeats a steady freefall above their heads. The rain dulls colors, seeps warmth by freezing centigrade in drizzling tendrils, imposes an impervious existence that can either mold, break or wash away even the strongest.

“At this rate, we’ll be missing dinner,” Kazuki says, tapping his foot against the gravel. He figures his new leather shoes will not be spared under its conditions.

Takuya cusses the never-ending torrents. The school dormitories are just a bend away, a minute walk even at metered pace. 

There is movement besides him as Takuya shuffles down to crouch, and rings a gasp from Kazuki as he starts removing his shoes. “We can’t have your new shoes drenched.” He tucks both shoes inside his shirt before Kazuki can even say, “What the heck, man?”; grabs an arm as he pulls them both to the firsts of summer showers. “Let’s make a run for it!”

—

Takuya isn’t really at peace with fashion. He figured it will survive and evolve even without his imminent participation. Plus, he didn’t get the vibe of boys trying their best to stay pretty; not that there was anything wrong with pretty boys and passion for fashion—it just too much effort; effort that should be placed on planetary conservation or end to world hunger.

“You’re amazing,” Kazuki says simply, shaving the side of his head for a neat Mohawk, “now do the world a favor and look like it.”

—

They begin in the quietest of manners: as friends.

That’s probably why they knew they would last. They always had each other to run to when life gets rough, a home they call us, built in foundations of trust and respect, tempered by an equal allowance of mistakes and acceptance.

“Partners,” Kazuki says out of the blue, toothbrush suspended in midair, catching their reflection in the mirror. Takuya spits on the sink, re-brushes his teeth, and questions with a raise of an eyebrow. He explains, “You’re that person I’ll gladly go to jail with for smuggling goods.”

“You’re that person I’ll gladly go to jail with for smuggling goods, too,” Takuya says, mouth frothing with foam.

“This is why you don’t have girlfriends,” Shouta says in full-meaning. They hounded him all week to get even.

—

It starts at the balcony of the Prefectural swim meet, one glorious summer at the prime of their first year in high school, one of the members of their academy swam for the opposing team, effectively throwing away the race and jeopardizing the school’s reputation. But at the end of the race was the biggest gathering of smiles in all of history, grateful for the chance existence, to be shared, and the purpose brimmed in contrast to any podium finishes and misguided sense of accomplishments.

On the balcony of the stands, Takuya whistles long and low, “That looks like fun.”

“Tell me about it,” says the nameless charming face beside him, dressed in the same summer uniform and a marketable charisma better put to a use where the feminine denizens can fawn at leisure. “Minami. Kazuki Minami.”

“Takuya Uozumi,” he replies, holding out his hand; the beginnings of the rest of their lives etched by a simple handshake. “Do you know where we sign up?”


End file.
